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THE AMBER ROSARY.
O, liquidly the sunlight filters through
These shining spheres of warm translucent gold,
Changing to drops of rich and wondrous hue,
Like precious wine of vintage rare and old.
These shining spheres of warm translucent gold,
Changing to drops of rich and wondrous hue,
Like precious wine of vintage rare and old.
Ah me! this rosary, in other lands,
Has learned more prayers than I shall ever know,—
Its slow beads slipped and smoothed by pious hands,
Whose pulses stopped a hundred years ago.
Has learned more prayers than I shall ever know,—
Its slow beads slipped and smoothed by pious hands,
Whose pulses stopped a hundred years ago.
It keeps an odor mystical and dim,
As of old churches, where the censer swings,—
Where, listening to the echo-chanted hymn,
The sculptured angels fold their marble wings.
As of old churches, where the censer swings,—
Where, listening to the echo-chanted hymn,
The sculptured angels fold their marble wings.
Where through the windows melts the unwilling light,
And in its passage learns their gorgeous stain,
Then bars the gloom with rays all rainbow-bright,
As human souls grow beautiful through pain.
And in its passage learns their gorgeous stain,
Then bars the gloom with rays all rainbow-bright,
As human souls grow beautiful through pain.
One birthday,—it might be a year ago,
Or fifty, or a thousand,—one who smiled
Or fifty, or a thousand,—one who smiled
